cloth, it was covered with blood.
“Fix me my drink!” he ordered Caramon, his lips
forming the words for he had momentarily lost the power
of speech. Collapsing in a comer, he closed his eyes and
concentrated on drawing breath. Those near could hear the
air whistle in his lungs.
Caramon peered through the crowd, attempting to find
the barmaid, and shouted for boiling hot water. Raistlin
slid a pouch across the table toward his brother, who
picked it up and carefully measured out some of its
contents into a mug. The inn’s proprietor himself came
bustling over with the hot water in a steaming kettle. He
was just about to pour when a sudden shouting rose up
around the door.
“Hey, there! Get out you little vermin! No kender
allowed!” cried several of the guests.
“Kender!” Kettle in hand, the proprietor ran off in
panic.
“Hey!” shouted Caramon after the flurried innkeeper
in exasperation, “you forgot our water!”
“But I tell you I have friends here!” A shrill voice rose
up from the doorway. “Where? Why,” – there was a
moment’s pause – “there! Hi, Caramon! Remember me?”
“Name of the Abyss!” muttered Caramon, hunching
up his big shoulders and ducking his head.
A short figure, about the stature of a twelve-year old
human, with the face of a man of twenty and the wide-
eyed innocent expression of a babe of three, was pointing
gleefully at the booth of the warrior and his brother. The
figure was clad in a bright green tunic and orange striped
hose. A long tassel of hair was twisted round his head and
hung down his back. Numerous pouches containing the
possessions of everyone who had been unfortunate enough
to cross his path hung from his belt.
“You’re answerable for him, then,” said the proprietor
grimly, marching the kender across the room, one hand
gripping the slight shoulders firmly. There was a wild
scramble as men stuffed their purses inside their shirts,
down their pants, or wherever else they thought their
valuables might be safe from a kender’s light and nimble
fingers.
“Hey! Our water!” Caramon made a grab for the
innkeeper but got a handful of kender instead.
“Earwig Lockpicker,” said the kender, holding out his
hand politely. “Friend of Tasslehoff Burrfoot’s. We met at
the Inn of the Last Home. I couldn’t stay long. There was
that misunderstanding over the horse. I told them I didn’t
steal it. I can’t think how it came to follow me.”
“Maybe because you were holding firmly onto the
reins?” suggested Caramon.
“Do you think so? Because I – Ouch!”
“Drop it!” said Raistlin, his thin hand closing tightly
over the kender’s wrist.
“Oh,” said Earwig meekly, releasing the pouch that
had been lying on the table and was now making its way
into the kender’s pocket. “Is that yours?”
The mage cast a piercing, infuriated glare at his
brother, who flushed and shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ll get
that water for you, Raist. Right now. Uh, Innkeeper!”
“Well, look over there!” said the kender, squirming
around in his seat to face the front door as it dosed behind
a small group of travelers. “I followed those people into
town. You can’t imagine,” he said in an indignant whisper
that carried clearly across the room, “how rude that man
is! He should have thanked me for finding his dagger,
instead of – ”
“Greetings, sir. Greetings, my lady.” The proprietor
bobbed and bowed officiously. The heavily cloaked man
and woman were, to all appearances, well dressed. “You’ll
be wanting a room, no doubt, and then dinner. There’s hay
in the stable for your horses.”
“We’ll be wanting nothing,” said the man in a harsh
voice. He was carrying a young boy in his arms and, as he
spoke, he eased the child to the floor, then flexed his arms
as though they ached. “Nothing except a seat by your fire.
We wouldn’t have come in except that my lady-wife is not
feeling well.”
“Not well?” The innkeeper, backing up, held out a
dish cloth in front of him as a sort of shield and eyed them
askance. “Not the plague?”
“No, no!” said the woman in a low, cultivated voice.